


The Happily Ever After Hypothesis

by Berty



Series: A Fit Of Fashion [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bath Sex, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mirror Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, POV John Watson, Romance, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Surprises, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29312655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: John and Sherlock are attending a mysterious party Chez Holmes. But when Sherlock reveals that he has brought something for John to dress up in this time, it's not what John was expecting. The sixth (and final?) part of the Fit Of Fashion Series.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: A Fit Of Fashion [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1075575
Comments: 23
Kudos: 79





	The Happily Ever After Hypothesis

**Author's Note:**

> There have been polo uniforms, army uniforms, glasses and hoodies, cosy jumpers and tight jeans, but most of all there has been love. Lots of it. Prepare yourself for expensive tailoring, extensive bathing and a whole lifetime of happily ever after when John and Sherlock DON'T get dressed up this time. 
> 
> Thank you again to 88th Parallel who gave me the push to write this and the title to go with the series.

**John? Where are you? SH**

Smiling to himself, John wonders when exasperation and sporadic, demanding text messages became what love means to him. He looks up to apologise to Hugh, but sees he is already looking in his direction, a shadow of a smile quirking his lips.

“Has he only just noticed that you’re gone?” Hugh asks with a twitch of his eyebrows that John recognises seeing on his son.

“Apparently,” John admits and they share a fond, knowing look which pleases John as much as it unnerves him. In no imagined future did a younger John Watson ever see himself out shopping with his boyfriend's father. And since when did he and Sherlock’s dad share a moment over how much they both love the thirty-nine year old genius with the temperament of a toddler and the subtlety of a punch in the balls?

They arrived to stay with Hugh and Violet (as they insist he call them) yesterday. Sherlock drove them down to the family home in Dorset in a hired car. There’s to be some kind of family party, John is given to understand. That’s why he and Hugh have been sent off to the local town to collect flower arrangements while Sherlock, Mycroft and his mother organise caterers, chairs, garden lights, bottles and glasses. When the Holmeses throw a party, they really don’t spare attention to detail, it seems to John, which makes it all the more surprising that Sherlock agreed that they would come.

And now here he is, smiling dopily at his lover’s dad and they’re comparing notes on how infuriatingly adorable Sherlock can be. They both seem to realise this at the same time and their grins turn rueful.

“He really does think the world of you, John. Don’t be fooled by his manner or his little conceits.”

Hugh is a quiet man, easily overlooked or underestimated, but his mind is just as sharp as those of his family, in his own way. John can see a lot of Violet in Sherlock and Mycroft - they draw the eye and tend to dominate any conversation they entertain. Sherlock has her dramatic flair, her cheekbones and her energy but he has his dad’s eyes and, as John has discovered, his gentleness. Hugh also makes no secret of loving his boys though, and shows it through warm hands on backs or shoulders, proud, soft smiles and in the way he listens to their words.

“He hasn’t managed to drive me away yet,” John says, then adds, “And it’s… er… entirely mutual.” John nods and clears his throat, glancing around the shop to signal that their little heart-to-heart has served its purpose and is now at an end.

Hugh clearly agrees, turns to greet the florist, and waits while the man disappears into the back of the shop to fetch their order.

**I’m in town with your dad. I told you when I left!**

**Still? That was hours ago. Are you on your way back yet? SH**

**Not yet. Your mum appears to have ordered most of the Chelsea Flower Show. And we’ve only been gone for half an hour!**

John watches with rising alarm as more and more boxes and arrangements are carried through, creating a small garden of white and yellow and silver around Hugh’s feet.

**Dull. I wanted your opinion on this suit. SH**

**Ask your mum?**

**Absolutely not. There’s a reason Mycroft dresses the way he does, you know. SH**

John has a sudden image of Sherlock’s beautiful body hidden under pinstripes or tweed, and he shudders. No… just no.

 **Did you get yourself something new for this party?**

John types with a sinking feeling as he mentally reviews the contents of his suitcase knowing that it is never going to come up with something acceptable when even Sherlock is questioning his own sartorial choices. 

**You might have told me this was a formal do!**

**It’s not formal, exactly. And this suit is for you. SH**

That brings John up short. Since when does Sherlock buy him clothes? The fact is that Sherlock has been quite scathing about John’s clothes although never in a nasty way, and clearly he has a much better eye, better taste and better connections than John’s furtive trips to M&S or Next. He wonders why Sherlock has suddenly taken an interest in what John wears. Is the great berk trying to spare his blushes by picking out clothes suitable for a Holmes family gathering for him without John having to cough up the kind of money that Sherlock spends? And what kind of a party _is_ this?

**I’m sure whatever you’ve picked out is fine. I’ll try and hurry your dad along. We’re never going to fit this all in the car!**

John swallows down a surge of disquiet. Is Sherlock ashamed of John’s humble background and their financial disparity? Does he not want to introduce John to his extended family without a bit of a make-over? It doesn’t sound like something Sherlock would care about or do, but what other reason could there be? Suddenly the scent of the kaleidoscope of flowers in the shop is overwhelming and nauseating. 

Then Hugh is there with teetering white boxes for John to juggle while he fetches the car from where he parked it, and by the time they have defied physics and packed in more than can possibly be held by Hugh’s ancient Land Rover, John has pushed the uncomfortable thoughts to the side until he has time to talk himself out of his first conclusions.

When they get back to the house, John is swept up by Violet and put to work placing the flower arrangements on the tables in the marquee and in other strategic spots around the garden that she has drafted on a map that she presses into John’s hand before disappearing. He does his best, watching out for Sherlock as he works, trying not to let the stupid thoughts in his head take hold. He spots him once or twice, deep in conversation with his brother or attempting to interpret his mother's directions with a very poor show of grace. Sherlock doesn't spot him, or if he does, he doesn't let on, and John is quietly glad. He doesn't feel ready to have the conversation he fears is coming. Even if he's wrong, even if it's innocuous and he's got the wrong end of the stick, there's something about being here in the place that Sherlock grew up, that makes him feel as if he's trespassing on a past he wasn’t part of.

John has always known he’s not really in Sherlock’s league. He can keep up with him physically and to some extent mentally, but for all that they do love each other, John is under no illusion that a guy like him would ever normally get someone like Sherlock. He’s not exactly been waiting for the other shoe to drop, his self-esteem is not that shaky, but on occasion it comes back to haunt him. He’s seen the looks he gets sometimes when Sherlock introduces John as his partner - a lift of an eyebrow or a slightly confused smile before they shake hands. He doesn’t even blame them - it took him quite some time to believe it himself. He’s short and greying and ordinary, and Sherlock… is Sherlock.

John can see that his boyfriend should be with someone as graceful and smart and refined as he is, but Sherlock has never once given any indication that he sees that. He’s never before made John feel inadequate or less, but in all the years they have been together, Sherlock has kept family and John separate. John, being an idiot, thought that was down to Sherlock being averse to family reunions, but now he’s not so sure.

He hates feeling like this. He hates doubting Sherlock’s intentions or his honesty, but one glance around the garden is enough to tell John that this party is not just an excuse for a family gathering - it’s an event of some kind, and it’s one Sherlock has decided that John’s own clothes are not suited to.

“You’re being ridiculous, you know,” Sherlock informs him quietly. He's appeared at his elbow as if by magic, his silver eyes gazing across the manicured gardens and cutting to the side to take in John’s reaction.

“Easy for you to say,” John counters weakly, cross at being so transparent yet again.

Sherlock sighs through his nose and comes around to stand to face John, giving him no choice but to meet his steady gaze.

Watching Sherlock watch him is uncomfortable and he’s ashamed of the thoughts that have been tormenting him, even while he cannot quite dismiss them.

“Come on. I need to explain,” Sherlock says after a long, thoughtful moment, his eyes widening slightly at whatever he has seen in John's ridiculously eloquent expression. He takes John by the arm, turning him toward the house, holding on as if he expects him to make a run for it. They pass unmarked through the kitchen and the dining room where people weave like dancers, complicated and controlled through their allotted tasks. Sherlock precedes John up the staircase to their room, tucked at the back of the house away from the noise and hurry of the preparations.

He closes the door behind them, adding to the feelings of distance from the main event. John sits on the bed curled forward, his forearms on his thighs, his hands loosely grasped between his knees.

Sherlock stays by the door, chewing his lip.

“I see that I may have misjudged your reaction to all the idiocy going on downstairs,” he says quietly. “It was never my intention to make you uncomfortable or self-conscious. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Just tell me what’s going on. What is all this?" John cannot avoid this now, so, as is his habit, he wants it out in the open. A quick, clean incision rather than guesswork and assumptions. "You have never, in all the years I have known you, been to a family gathering before. What is so special about this one that we are here at all?”

“Actually it’s my parent's wedding anniversary. Fifty years.” Sherlock smiles slightly.

“That’s lovely,” John admits. “Really lovely. But what’s all this with a suit? If you’d told me it was a big celebration I would have… I dunno, worn something smart. Or bought something new. Or asked for advice, if it’s such a big deal.”

“Well, that’s where I have miscalculated.” Sherlock turns toward the wardrobe and pulls open the heavy wooden door. He starts to move hangers along the old, brass rail with a soft rumble and squeak.

“In my effort to keep this low-key, I have neglected to make you aware of how important some aspects of today are.” His hands linger over a plastic covered hanger and he pauses.

“Well tell me now because I’m starting to think that you’re regretting bringing me here.”

The breath that Sherlock huffs cannot be called a laugh by any stretch. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Then enlighten me.”

Sherlock pulls out the hanger he’s been fiddling with. The wrap swishes and slips a bit as he lays the enclosed suit on the covers beside John. Even through the plastic John can see it’s a beautiful bit of tailoring. The material is a dark blue with a mid-grey thread running through the weave. It looks expensive but understated and John has a feeling that it has been tailored to his exact measurements even though he has never laid eyes on it before. There’s a white shirt and a grey tie on the hanger too, and Sherlock puts socks, a pocket square and a pair of smart black shoes beside it. John recognises the mark of Sherlock’s own shoemaker on the inserts - handmade, leather soled and exactly his size, no doubt. The outfit must have cost a fortune.

“You are, in fact, the entire reason I am here, this weekend. But in my effort to ensure that you were put under no pressure, I see that I have made you think that I am in some way embarrassed by being seen with you. Ironic really, considering that my reason for bringing you here this weekend was to ask you to continue being seen with me on a permanent basis.”

John's eyes track from the apologetic look on Sherlock’s face, back to the suit laid out on their bed. He doesn’t quite… It surely cannot be…

“Wear the suit, wear your bathrobe, wear your most horrific cardigan, wear nothing at all, I couldn't care less,” Sherlock says, gesturing to the room at large. “But if you would be so kind, I would like to marry you, if you’ll have me - later on today if convenient.”

John’s brain kind of jumps the track and it’s not until he begins to feel dizzy that he remembers to take a breath. His eyes track to Sherlock’s face… Sherlock’s hopeful, worried face.

“This… Are you…? Is this…? What does that even mean?”

Sherlock winces a little, and eyes John with unconcealed concern.

“I wasn’t certain whether you would have preferred a full-scale affair or something less traditional, so I have informed Mycroft that he is to be prepared for anything up to and including bridesmaids and bouquets or just two signatures on a piece of paper and that’s an end to it. I understand that for some people, the act of standing in front of an audience and making vows is important, while others believe that a promise made to the object of their affection alone is sufficient. In being prepared for either end of this spectrum and any point between, I have distracted myself from the most important aspect of such an occasion, which is to obtain your acceptance of such a plan in whatever guise it might be accomplished. With this in mind, and should your inclination be towards the less ostentatious displays of legalising a partnership, we could, perhaps…”

“Yes.”

Bridesmaids? Signatures? Vows? Please don't let him have got this wrong, John thinks, or he is about to look like the biggest version of the idiot Sherlock always accuses him of being. 

Sherlock swallows down whatever it is he was going to say. John recognises one of his boyfriend’s rambling speeches for what it is… uncertainty, deflection and nervousness.

“To which?” Sherlock asks after sucking in a long, slow breath.

“Any of them, all of them, I don’t care… just… yes.”

And Sherlock’s face does that rarest of things in which he goes soft and wide-eyed. He’s only seen it once or twice outside of their bed, but it takes John’s breath away every time. 

"You want to..."

"Marry you. Yes. Yes, I do."

"You might think the timing a little unorthodox, but this choice of date seems to have worked rather well for my parents - they seem to still like each other, at least. "

"Sentiment?" John asks, his eyes wide, his shock only half-feigned. 

"Apparently so. Hateful isn't it?" Sherlock says with a slow, self-deprecating smile. "You bring out my inner romantic, it would seem."

"You're not so tough, Holmes," John grins. "Not immune to my charms, eh?"

And there they are on a Friday afternoon in Sherlock's childhood bedroom, grinning at each other like idiots as the bustle and barely suppressed chaos of the impending party swirls up from downstairs and in through the window. The sun is already on its downward path and the sunlight is thick between them. Lazy dust motes circle and it seems that time has held its breath for them, giving them a moment to consider all the unlikely happenings and tiny, everyday coincidences that have focussed down to this one point - insignificant to most everybody else on the planet but them. 

"So," Sherlock says, his eyes still smiling. "I heard a yes in there."

John nods, swallowing carefully around a suspiciously thick throat. "What did you have in mind?"

"One of the advantages... the only one I can currently bring to mind actually... is that my brother happens to be the British Government, with all that entails. He can start you a small war, give you intel on any number of indiscretions perpetrated by any number of heads of state, rustle up a knighthood, cover up most legal misdemeanours you might need sorting... or he can ensure that our names are on the requisite piece of paper with however much or little regard to tradition as we care to name. In short; name your poison."

John thinks, trying to second guess what Sherlock might deem appropriate. He has gone to all this trouble to find a way to make this what John wants, which makes his heart hitch a little. Despite the gesture, John wants this to be their decision but without the part where they talk round and round and confuse each other with their mutual desire to make the other happy. They've done it before, neither willing to be the one to decide, both wanting the other to have what they want. 

"No, I don't have a preference," Sherlock says and shrugs at John's exasperated sigh. 

"Alright. How quickly can we get Mrs Hudson and Greg here?" John asks. 

"Already anticipated. They are en route."

John's eyebrows rise, through he really shouldn't be surprised after all this time. "And Molly?" 

"Ditto," Sherlock murmurs. “I wasn’t sure if your sister…”

John shakes his head. “I don’t think so. There’s only so many times I can go through that. Let’s keep it at that.”

Sherlock nods slowly, looks like he wants to say more, but then nods again, more decisively.

"Okay, how about this?” John offers. “We attend your parents’ party, shake some hands, drink some champagne, toast their anniversary, and when everybody's gone and the sun has gone down, we'll find a quiet corner, sign a piece of paper and share one more bottle with our friends, but as partners for life this time."

"You were already that, one way or another," Sherlock says, stepping closer.

John stands to meet him, his head tipped and his arms ready to enfold his fiancé.

Fiancé; it doesn't seem quite real. Having gone from feeling like an embarrassment to being Sherlock's one and only is making John a bit punchy. It's such a sharp about-face that his head is still spinning - or that might be the unorthodox proposal. 

John had never pegged Sherlock for the kind who might want to marry. And although John has never doubted Sherlock's love or his place in his life, he's more than a little miffed that he didn't get in there and pop the question first. He would have - there were several occasions in the last few months when it was right at the tip of John's tongue. But Sherlock is a private man in so many ways despite the way he shows off at crime scenes. This thing between them was never announced, never declared, it just came into being so quietly and inevitably that he never questioned it. And that's the way John thought it was going to be forever - just a thing that is there, like breathing or sun rise or income tax. It just... was. Is. But now, apparently, it's this too. Marriage. ‘ _I do,_ ’ and this is who we are.

John could not be happier. 

Sherlock steps into the embrace easily and without hesitation. For a lanky git and a skinny one, they fit together surprisingly seamlessly. Sherlock's cheek rests on John's head and John's cheek fits onto Sherlock's shoulder as if they have been doing it their whole lives. Downstairs the string quartet are tuning up and the first guests are beginning to arrive. The unmistakable burble of happy voices steals into their quiet. They must have been here longer than they thought. 

The musicians begin to play soft background music, something classical that John has heard before but couldn't name. Slowly Sherlock begins to sway in time to the strings and when John follows, Sherlock's smile could light up the whole of Oxford Street. John is no dancer, but it seems that Sherlock is - today is one surprise after another - and within a minute, they are turning slow circles, holding each other closely. It's easy to follow when Sherlock leads and John knows if he ever told anyone about this Sherlock - the one he gets to see and live with and love - they would never believe him. This acerbic, insulting, arrogant man - and he is, all of those things - is capable of such insight and kindness and romance under the right circumstances, and John is happy for no one else to know that, because this Sherlock is for him, and him alone. 

As they rock slowly, turning circles in the syrupy sunlight, John realises how long he has kept the extent of his love hidden. He had never spoken of a marriage or a civil partnership thinking that he would find himself faced with confusion or, worse, poorly concealed scorn. The fact that Sherlock has brought this bolt from the blue in the form of a proposal could not be more of a surprise. He doesn't doubt the man's regard, or even his attention span, but being married means something bigger than anything they have seemed to be heading towards. John has blamed his nationality and his gender for the fact that he hasn't brought their relationship status up before, but although it might be a part of it, it isn't all. To ask Sherlock for more than they already had seemed... churlish somehow. Ungrateful, when he already had so much. John wonders if Sherlock knew that, saw that in him. He wonders if that is what has prompted him to ask.

"No," Sherlock murmurs as he guides them around again. And, "Don't be an idiot. I'm not doing it because I think you want me to. I'm doing it because I want to. I'm as surprised as you are, but there it is."

"I wanted to ask you, you know. Lots of times. But I didn't think that it was the kind of thing you subscribed to. Might appreciate. You've never been one for overdone sentiment."

"I..." Sherlock stops and their progress around the room ceases, leaving two middle aged men, holding each other tightly in a room slowly emptying of sunlight. "I don't know when that started but within a day of meeting you I was already doubting the veracity of that particular belief. I suspect it was something I had created for myself to keep me... safe."

He doesn't say from what, but the way his eyes dart away means that John doesn't need it spelled out. Sherlock was a lonely child who grew into a lonely teenager who grew into a man for whom intimacy and companionship were something to be held in contempt, unnecessary and for the weak. 

"But then there was you, and you seemed to want to put yourself between me and the things that tried to hurt my balance, so I didn't need to be safe anymore. I had you for that. So I began to lower my defences and there you were each time, coming up to meet me and match my tentative overtures with enthusiasm and reciprocation. And then one day, I woke up and we were already here. Loving and being loved in return."

John's heart is filled with helium. It floats in his chest and bumps against his ribs, trying to soar. All the things he has kept down, all the words he has swallowed back - now they are free. And the feeling of relief at being finally able to speak the words from the last corner of his soul to Sherlock is intoxicating. To hear Sherlock doing the same thing, apparently... well, he's not one for tears, but it's a close run thing. 

John rises onto his toes and presses a kiss to Sherlock's waiting mouth. He wobbles slightly and Sherlock braces him so he doesn't stumble.

"You're too tall, Holmes."

"You're too short, Watson."

"I've heard that height differences can be nullified by being horizontal," John mutters against Sherlock's neck.

"It sounds far-fetched, but let us by all means try it."

They take the two steps to their bed and topple onto it, each being unwilling to be the one who lets go of the other. John winces at the unsubtle noise of the mattress but Sherlock just smirks and rolls onto John, planting his elbows on either side of John's head and staring down at him with every evidence of satisfaction. He leans in and John opens his lips to Sherlock's. His boyfriend's bony knees are threatening to snap his tibia, so John wriggles and spreads his legs trying to get Sherlock weight braced somewhere other than his shins. Of course, this has the added bonus of guiding Sherlock down into the cradle of John's hips and as they slot together there is the unmistakable sensation of an answering solidness to John's own. 

"Initial observations point to this statement being very promising," Sherlock rumbles against the crook of John's neck and he gives another, more deliberate slide of his hips. John hums in approval and digs his heels into the mattress to find the leverage to meet Sherlock's lazy rocking. 

He is clearly a genius as the next few minutes are spent very contentedly rolling against each other with a slow, easy swell - enough to feel good but not enough to bring either of them beyond a certain point of arousal. Sherlock's cheeks are pinkened and his hair is insane when he lifts his head and smiles into John's equally goofy grin. Naturally, within seconds, Sherlock's grin has become sly and challenging, and John grunts when he feels long fingers slide between their bodies and work to lower his zip.

"While this is an excellent idea in principle," John murmurs, trying to keep his attention on his words rather than the hand that is insinuating itself into his pants, " we must remember that your family are no more than twenty metres away AND..." (Oh, god, that was a good spot) "... and that we need to get dressed for this party because as soon as it's over I'm going to marry you." 

Sherlock's eyes, when his head snaps up, are wide and bright. "All good points, John, and I am getting dressed for the party."

"You are quite clearly getting me undressed."

"In order for you to get dressed, you must first UN-dress. I'm helping, " Sherlock declares earnestly, even as his huge hand finds and cups John's balls with exquisite delicacy and warm familiarity. John gasps and melts further into the bed, Sherlock does have a point, he can’t go out there in these clothes, so he might as well allow a helping hand rather than argue and cause a fuss. He gives little resistance as Sherlock triumphantly begins to strip him, and then, jumping up off the bed momentarily, himself.

He watches John who lays patiently waiting. Sherlock's eyes are myriad shades of both colour and emotion. Bright and burning and tender and sweet by turns. He gently lays himself back alongside John and rolls back into the space he left with a happy sigh and a soft, slightly smug kiss.

"Is this a good idea?" John asks. For all that there is a very willing, beautiful man in his arms, there are also most of said beautiful man's extended family arriving downstairs, more and more of them with each passing moment. 

"It is quite possibly the best idea I have ever had... and that is saying rather a lot... I have an extensive history of good ideas." Sherlock tells him, losing track once or twice as he finds a particularly arresting piece of John to nibble or kiss. 

"But what if..." and yes, Sherlock is correct, that really is an excellent piece of John to be lavishing affection on. "What if they hear us. Or what if they come in here by mistake when they're looking for the loo. Or... ahhhhhhhh..." John's arguments trail off as Sherlock blithely ignores them all, pleasing himself as usual and his partner in the process.

After a while some of John's arguments must filter through the haze though as Sherlock addresses them between finding new places to touch.

"If any member of my family is idiotic enough to blunder in here, then they deserve everything they get an eyeful of, " he mutters and silences John's next, less emphatic objections by kissing the words straight out of his mouth.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and hangs on. He is obviously a man with a plan and John wouldn't want to mess up his train of thought which appears to be on the direct line to where John wants to go.

Sherlock kisses a trail across his shoulders and collar bone, and down the middle of his chest, pausing to roll first one nipple and then the other eliciting pleased grunts from John, as he noses lower and lower. He lifts his tousled head as John is arching his back off the bed and greedily urging Sherlock's mouth where he really needs it.

"You will need to be quiet though, John. Mycroft's room is right across the hall."

John is about to complain that no one should be mentioning Sherlock's brother in such a compromising position as this, and bemoaning the fact that a man cannot be expected to maintain a sufficient level of interest in proceedings when the British Government is only a few metres away, but Sherlock chooses that moment to run a slick bottom lip across the head of John's cock, then open his mouth and take him in. 

It's very difficult to build an argument when your very talented fiancé is making an assault on every single area of your body that lights you up like a Christmas tree - and so it is for John. Sherlock knows exactly the right spots and the right pressure and the right amount of suction to have John incoherent in the shortest possible time. John can only breathe and whisper endearments and praises when Sherlock is focussed like this. It's as if John has become his whole world; with the intensity of attention he usually spares only for particularly challenging cases, he moves across John's skin, connecting points and solving clues in an effort to slowly drive John to the edge of his control.

That focus used to scare John before they became this. Some days he felt that a glance from Sherlock laid him bare, again and again. He used to try to stare the man down, meet his calculating eye and defy him to make a remark. He would worry what he had given away and react as if he was being judged. But Sherlock never remarked on the things that he saw. He would choose something innocuous or insignificant and he would tease John with it, or throw things at him when they argued or were disappointed in the other, but he never took John to pieces as he had seen him do to others. And John finally began to relax; after all, living with Sherlock was something he had never imagined, something he had never looked for, but that turned out to be the key to the rest of his life. So when one day Sherlock had glanced at him and John had looked right back and had still been looking when Sherlock's eyes had widened at what he'd seen, John had been less than a second behind when Sherlock finally reached for him. And he’s never looked back.

Scraping together the last of his control, knowing that he will not last and that this little celebration will be over, John pulls Sherlock back up to kiss him deeply, and while he's still settling, he twines his leg over Sherlock's and flips them. The taller man lets out a satisfying, "Oof," as he lands on his back with an armful of horny, happy fiancé. 

"Sh!" John hisses, half in earnest but unable to keep the grin off his lips and the twinkle out of his eye. "This is my last chance to have my wicked way with you before you make an honest man of me."

"Your first and last time with your fiancé," Sherlock agrees and the world does that strange thing it sometimes does when he and Sherlock are together - time slows and grins fade, their eyes remain locked as everything else slips away for a few minutes or even hours. John believes he sees the most real incarnation of his acerbic, flawed genius at times like this. His face smooths, his eyes soften and something like gratitude and wonder settle on his expressive face. John can only imagine that his own face looks exactly the same because in moments like this he is as close to Sherlock as he can be. They have always had a good connection, conveying whole conversations with a single look and for men who find it as difficult to express themselves as they do, especially in the early days, this silent accord used to reassure John that he wasn't just an annoying follower or a mirror held up for Sherlock to reflect his brilliance in - there is give and take in these communications, questions and answers, declarations and acceptance and parity. It's an uncanny feeling but it is the most natural thing in the world to them now.

Sherlock's expression, teasing only seconds before, warms and relaxes. John stares helplessly into the ever-shifting palette of Sherlock's unguarded gaze, almost silver in this light and the mood softens. Wrestling and quips certainly have their place in their relationship, but not here and not now. The significance and magnitude of what they are about to do is not lost on them - they have fought for this love, hoped for such a moment but never taken their good fortune for granted. Of all the people in the world that they may have fallen in with in their lives, the fact that it was each other, the serendipity of the moment they met, takes them unawares.

Sherlock reaches up a hand and lays his palm to John's cheek. He leans up and kisses him with a sweetly swollen pinkened mouth, soft and fleeting, then nudges John off his chest and rolls off the bed. He turns back to John , sprawled across the messed up sheets. His face is clear and certain, and he holds a hand out to John in invitation. The honey light of the afternoon creeps through the messy curls, lighting them up like a halo of gold. John has never seen anything more spell-binding, soul-binding and if he could say, "I do," right now, he would. No-one has ever seen this Sherlock, no-one even suspects that he exists. He is John's, completely and utterly, free to be himself, as difficult and demanding as he can be, and as gentle and adoring as John knows him to be. He doesn't fear rejection, he never needs to pretend - he knows that John loves him. God knows he's told him often enough but once more cannot hurt.

He doesn’t have to.

"I know." Sherlock murmurs. "I love you too."

And John is a soldier. He is a doctor. He is a grown man and he does not cry when his boyfriend looks like an angel and tells him he loves him, damn it! He does not cry! He might be slightly blinded by the sunlight, he might even have an allergy to the feathers in Sherlock's posh pillows, but the dampness welling along the line of his lashes is not tears.

Damn it.

Sherlock smiles softly, huffs a gentle, self-deprecating chuckle and grabs John's hand. He doesn't even call him an idiot. It must be his wedding day.

He pulls John into the adjoining bathroom, all old white porcelain and chrome, puts the plug in the decadently huge bathtub and turns on the taps to fill it. The tiles are cool under John's bare feet and when Sherlock pulls him into his arms, engulfing him in those deceptively strong limbs, it underlines the difference in their heights and in the temperature. Sherlock’s skin is warm and slightly blushed where they have been worshiping each other. He leans down and tips John's chin up with a long, insistent finger to kiss him, thoroughly and slowly. 

John imagined that the tub would take some minutes to fill, as large as it is, but when Sherlock pulls back to look at him, the steaming water is two thirds of the way up the sides. and John wonders again at how time bends and warps when they kiss. Sherlock lets him go and piles their towels on the floor where they can reach them. He helps John into the bath, settling him at the end and allowing him to sink down into the water before he climbs in after him, turning to find himself a space between John's thighs where he can lay back against John's chest and rest his head against his shoulder. The tub at Baker Street isn't really big enough for this - they have tried it once or twice, but it has ended up being more trouble than it was worth. This bath is a different thing altogether. John doesn't know if people in the 1920s or 30s were taller, or if a big bath was a status symbol, but there is enough room for them both to be under the water and stretched out in relative comfort, although Sherlock's long legs are bent a little at the knees. 

He loves the feeling of being this close to Sherlock, of experiencing all of him. He loves the scratch of Sherlock's leg hairs against his calves and shins. He loves the way he can bury his nose in Sherlock's hair and feel surrounded by his scent. His cock is pressed against his fiancé's lower back and he couldn't stop the tiny, rutting twitches of his hips if he tried. John tips his head and presses a kiss to Sherlock's temple, eliciting a rumble of contentment. He reaches around and rubs his palms over Sherlock's almost hairless chest, making sure that his nails catch his nipples as they travel. He lets his fingers move lower when Sherlock rubs his own hands up and down John's shins distractedly. Sherlock's belly is trim and lightly muscled, and John fingers the trail of dark hair that begins at his navel and disappears beneath the water. Sherlock's cock is hard against his stomach and John can reach the silky head of it with this fingertips only, so he touches it softly with the pads of his fingers, tracing the shape of it under the water, pressing gently at the slit and making Sherlock heave a shuddering, contented breath. 

The water isn't too hot in the way that Sherlock normally takes his bath, but it's comfortable in the warm bathroom, and the window is ajar letting in the sweet scented air from the garden and the growing murmur of the guests. Sherlock taps his fingers in time to the music being played by the string quartet, running through what must be the violin fingering on John's leg.

"Come up here a bit," John murmurs.

"Hmmm. Why? I'm comfy here," Sherlock responds in a lazy tone, only the smallest hint of teasing in it but John can see the tiny quirk of a smile at the edge of Sherlock's lip.

"Because I want to kiss you and I can't reach," John explains.

Sherlock grumbles at that but sits up and wriggles further back between John's thighs causing a wave of water to wash down the bath and swill over the edge of the tub and onto the floor with a sharp splash. He ignores it entirely and twists his head so his lips can touch John's. John cranes his neck and kisses him as deeply as he can at this angle, pouring his adoration and happiness into the touch of their tongues and the sweep of their lips. When they pause for breath, Sherlock works his neck, getting rid of the kink. John decides to take another tack with his demonstration.

His hand closes around Sherlock's cock and tugs upwards, sure and slow. Sherlock's back arches and his head falls back giving John access to the line of his neck and the crook where it joins his shoulder - one of John's favourite places to suck because of the incredible noises Sherlock makes when he does it. 

"Sh!" he whispers when his fiancé whimpers a low, rumbling moan that they must be able to hear outside, and no one hearing that wanton sound could have any doubt of what it is they are doing. Sherlock, of course, ignores him and impatiently tips his chin, pressing the perfection of his throat closer to John for similar treatment. John considers worrying Sherlock's skin with his teeth and his lips until he has sucked a bruise - bold and beautiful - into his skin, but then, unbidden, an image of them repeating vows to each other while Mycroft and Greg scowl at the chain of marks around Sherlock's neck where his shirt is unbuttoned.

Instead he turns his attention to Sherlock's long, needy cock. It is a dusky colour when flat against the pale cream of his stomach. There isn't much slickness under the water and his hands aren't as eloquent as they usually are as a consequence. John makes his strokes long and firm, lifting the crown of Sherlock's cock almost out of the water, his palm sweeping over the head at the top of each stroke. Sherlock shudders every time and makes tiny voiced breaths which drive John crazy. He loves to see Sherlock let go when they're intimate, loves to watch him surrender the responsibility for his satisfaction to John and, best of all, he loves to give him what he wants. 

He slips his hand below the water again and cups Sherlock's balls, carefully lifting them and tugging on them, then even lower, the pads of his fingers rubbing at the tight furl between Sherlock's cheeks, gently to start and then with more intent, pressing into him, just the slightest bit and feeling the heat of him at his core. John can't reach far enough to press his fingers deeper and find the place that makes Sherlock tremble, but he works his opening lose, taps his fingertips against the hot skin and alternates his fingers with his knuckle, pressing harder and setting off ripples through the muscles of Sherlock's thighs and arse. This works out well for John - since Sherlock shifted, his gorgeous arse has been snugged against John's desperate cock and with each ripple of pleasure, Sherlock squirms against him. 

The water is cooling, but Sherlock is too undone to care. He hooks one knee over the sides of the bath, lifting his weight off John and spreading himself wide for his touch, and John cannot get enough of it.

"Stay like that," he growls and with more water on the floor, he slides out from behind Sherlock and out of the bath. With shaking fingers and a trail of drips, he snatches his wash bag from the cabinet and digs out a well used bottle of lubricant. Sherlock has listened to him for once and is watching him with one eye as he fists his own cock with lazy strokes. 

John pulls out the plug and nearly brains himself on the sink in his haste to climb back in at the other end of the bath. Sherlock's hips have sunk lower in the water without John's body to raise them up, but John scoots close and encourages Sherlock to rest his lower back on his knees. Sherlock hums and stretches. With his knee hooked over the side still, John is faced with Sherlock's beautiful arse, dusted with fine dark hairs, his pale, smooth skin deepens to a plum pink where John intends to make a proper job of his teasing now. 

He coats his fingers with the cool lube while Sherlock watches with a glitter of something both expectant and greedy in his grey eyes. John goes straight in with two fingers and Sherlock sighs and bites his lip. It is the work of seconds to find the bundle of nerves he is searching for. The muscles in Sherlock's belly and thighs twitch and tauten, and John leans down to smear kisses across his sternum and belly as the water recedes, before taking him softly into his mouth and sucking gently. John works with intense concentration - he knows the things that Sherlock likes, he knows the things that make him come in under a minute and he knows how close he can take it before he soothes and slows and makes his fiancé whine. 

John is ragingly hard and it's difficult to think of anything but how beautiful his Sherlock looks like this and how much he wants to slide home and make him come. Every now and again, however, the sounds coming through the window intrude and remind him that they are due at a party that is starting below their bathroom window right now, and that Sherlock can be very, very loud when he's wound up.

He takes in Sherlock's blissed out face and makes some important decisions: 1. that he will not be able to face party guests if they hear him making Sherlock howl up here even before he's shaken any of them by the hand and 2. they need to call a plumber in as soon as they get back home and get their bath replaced with a bigger one. 

Rising up on his knees, John lets Sherlock slip from his lips and replaces them with his hand. With his fingers deep in Sherlock, and his fist around his cock, he can feel the effect of this double assault and he leans over quickly to take Sherlock's lips in a deep, messy kiss. So when his fingers tease Sherlock's prostate and he begins the long, rough strokes that Sherlock loves when he's close, John is ready to swallow down the moans and deep sighs and take Sherlock over the edge into orgasm, holding him together when he feels like he is shaking apart. The clenching and squeezing around his fingers reveal the intensity of Sherlock's climax and when they finally slacken, John kisses a trail down his body, chasing the evidence of his ecstasy, ending up at his spread thighs and touching his lips with reverence to the smooth skin there.

"Beautiful," John tells him. "So beautiful."

John climbs awkwardly out of the bath, trying to ignore the insistent bob and twitch of his cock that is feeling rather unappreciated. He leaves Sherlock to wash away the evidence and walks back into their bedroom wondering if he can maybe sneak back into the bathroom when Sherlock finally gets out of the tub, and take care of his predicament. But he should have known better than to think that Sherlock of all people would have omitted to notice something like that. Before he's even reached into the wardrobe for clean underwear, his fiancé has plastered himself up against John's back, his long arms curling around John's waist and his chin propped on his shoulder, looking into John's face via the reflection in the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. 

"Oh, I don't think so, do you?" Sherlock asks, his voice very low and possessive enough to make John’s breath catch. His large hands sweep warmth across John's chest and belly as he eyes them both in the long mirror. "You'll scandalise all my elderly aunts if you go out there looking so... untended to."

John tries to turn in his arms, but Sherlock tightens his hold and watches his reflection with calculating eyes. John looks askance, but Sherlock is already letting his palms glide lower, smoothing over his belly and hips before sweeping a glancing brush up the underside of his cock. It hadn't really had time to flag, but it twitches strongly at Sherlock's attention.

Bracing him with one arm around his chest, Sherlock takes hold of John and hums against his neck as he strokes lightly. John shivers, although the air is warm, and his skin rises into pimples at the glut of sensation - wet finacé, warm skin and Sherlock's clever fingers touching him. John knows it won't take much - he feels like he's been hard for hours, but to have Sherlock's greedy gaze, watching his every twitch and shudder in the mirror as he works his cock gives an extra level of arousal. It seems unguarded and voyeuristic, even though there are only two of them there and John is surprised by how much the feeling of exposure it is affecting him.

He lifts his arm and reaches behind him, pushing his fingers into Sherlock's hair and turning his head for badly aimed kisses. He groans quietly into Sherlock's jaw. He can't seem to drag his gaze away from the sight of them both, Sherlock's pale hand around his own ruddy cock, his forearm flexing with each stroke. But best of all are Sherlock's eyes, silvered and half-lidded, not missing a single second of what he's doing to John, of how he's taking him apart and letting John watch. 

It's too much, and having been somewhat keyed up already, it isn't long before John is rising onto his toes, trying to force more of himself into Sherlock's firm fist. He's so close, _so close_ , but he can't shut his eyes because he'll miss the second when Sherlock makes him come, and that's when Sherlock whispers, "Now, John."

He convulses. Sherlock's arms tighten around him and hold him up when his muscles don't seem to be able to do anything but sing to him about how good the feeling washing through him is making them feel - tense and strong and hot and weak all at the same time. Sherlock's eyes are still holding his whenever John manages to force his own open. They seem to be the only thing he can see now - full of love and exhilaration and desire. John still cannot get over the fact that Sherlock looks at him like that at all. It's heady and powerful, and John wants him to look at him like that for the rest of their lives and even if he does, it still won't be long enough for John. 

As his body yields and finally relaxes back into Sherlock's arms even further, he can see the spatters on the mirror and a couple of the carpet as well as all over his own belly and thighs. 

Sherlock hums into his hair and doesn't let him go for a long, sweet while. John eventually turns in his arms and kisses him properly and Sherlock maneuvers them back to the bed where they flop down side by side, John panting and Sherlock looking smug. They steal soft kisses and listen to the conversations passing beneath their window, the low chunter of voices getting steadily louder even in the ten minutes they lay there.

"I suppose we had better make an appearance or tongues will begin to wag," Sherlock finally mutters, stroking a hand down John's thigh. "You need another bath," he observes and his smug reaches new heights. John just rolls his eyes at him and hoists himself up to standing and then into the bathroom. 

He can hear Sherlock dressing and getting ready and calls out to him, "You should go on down, our absence is going to be noted. We can't suddenly turn up together looking freshly bathed. People will guess what we've been doing."

"Bathing? Isn't that socially advisable?" 

"You know what I mean. Go down and meet your parent’s guests, get people drinks and be polite. I'll be down in ten minutes. It will be less suspicious that way," John advises.

"Only if you get that spatter of ejaculate out of your hair," Sherlock offers with a chuckle and John hears the door close behind him. He stares in the mirror, finds and deals with the spots of come in his hair (his _hair_ \- he's quite proud of that) and looks himself in the eye. 

"You are one lucky bugger, John Watson," he says sternly. "Do not fuck this up."

His reflection looks healthy and happy; relaxed with a soul deep contentment that even he can see. That's all Sherlock. He sometimes wonders what his life would have been had he not met Mike Stamford on that fateful day in London. He could never have imagined, as bitter and aching as he was at the time, that his life could be what it is now. And for what is about to come - well that would have been in the _miracles_ category. 

In a couple of hours he's going to marry his best friend. 

John sniffs at his reflection and blinks rapidly, ignoring the watery glint in his eyes. 

"Yeah, one lucky bugger."

He goes to dress and eyes the beautiful suit hanging on the door of the wardrobe. A quick check shows him that a similarly wrapped suit with a longer inseam and narrower waist has been left on the rail, so Sherlock hasn’t put on the wedding finery he brought. John is intrigued to see how the tailoring will look on him, but opts for what he was going to wear to the party anyway - some dark trousers and a deep blue shirt that’s a bit nicer than his usual choice. He doesn’t put on the tie or the jacket - it’s a warm day and Sherlock never wears a tie, so he thinks he can get away with it.

When John finally makes it down the stairs, the party is indeed in full swing. There are a decent number of people in the garden and John realises that he doesn't actually know any of them until he spots Greg talking to Mycroft. While Sherlock's brother isn't who he would normally seek out for any reason, Greg is a friend. Besides, if Mycroft is about to become his brother-in-law, he'd better start learning to be more civil to the man.

"Was beginning to think you were hiding," Greg greets him with a clap on the arm.

"No, I've been ..." John waves a hand back towards the party, "... around, you know. Lending a hand."

He swallows down the wince when he realises what he has said and catches Mycroft giving him a quick glance which turns into an eye roll - damn the Holmes brothers for being so ridiculously observant and astute.

"It's very good of you to help. Mummy and Father will be so grateful."

Other people might not catch the sarcasm in Mycroft's tone, but John has lived with Sherlock long enough to understand the other level of this conversation and decides to brazen it out. (After he has finished blushing about thoroughly debauching Mycroft's little brother while everyone was arriving, that is.)

"Lovely party, isn't it?" John says, a little too loudly as if he can change the topic just by will alone.

Greg looks between them, but answers John. "Yeah, it's a beautiful place they have here. Garden looks amazing. Very kind of you to invite me," this last, said to Mycroft comes off as slightly confused and John realises that Greg, at least, doesn't realise the reason he has been invited to some stranger's anniversary party.

"It's very kind of you to come," Mycroft replies and John recognises the lack of archness in his tone, as rare as it is. "Our parents are always complaining that they rarely get to meet our friends."

John does his best not to let his eyebrows climb up his forehead. Did Mycroft just call Greg a friend? A fiend of Sherlock's perhaps could be argued, but as far as John knows, Greg and Mycroft have a relationship based only on looking out for Sherlock in years past.

Greg clears his throat and looks a bit flustered, as does Mycroft strangely enough, but he is saved by the arrival of Mrs Hudson.

She kisses John's cheek and they all remark again on _how lovely it is to be invited_ and _how pretty the garden looks_ and _isn't the village charming_. John is scanning the partygoers, hoping to catch sight of his fiancé but all he spots is Molly Hooper chatting animatedly to a bookish-looking man who seems to have the same curls as Sherlock, although his are mid brown rather than black.

John chats with their London visitors for ten or fifteen minutes before he excuses himself with an offer of finding them drinks. Mycroft had disappeared once Mrs Hudson (who doesn't bother to hide her dislike for him) had arrived. Now John takes the long way around the perimeter of the party but still cannot get a line of sight on Sherlock.

"Are you alright, John?" Violet asks, appearing silently at his shoulder - it must be another Holmes trait.

John has a lot of respect for Violet - it cannot have been an easy household to live with. That doesn’t mean, of course, that he doesn’t also have a healthy fear of her disapproval or temper. He’s never seen it in the flesh, but even Mycroft looks haunted by the horror of having ever upset his mother. 

"Yes, I'm fine thanks. Happy anniversary, by the way. Gorgeous afternoon for it."

“We have been very lucky with the weather, and thank you for all your help with the flowers earlier. So, am I to understand that today will be one to be celebrated long after Hugh and I have turned our toes up?"

John smiles gently. "One that we can celebrate together perhaps for a good few years to come.""

Violet chuckles and grasps his arm warmly. "Oh you're a charmer, aren't you? Good answer," she concedes. "I'm so happy for you both. As a mother you worry about your children no matter how old and successful they become. Hugh and I could not be more pleased that you and Sherlock have found each other. He's always been rather an unusual soul and I sometimes wondered whether anyone would see through all the bluster and the showing off and the brains to the person he is underneath. Or that he would pause long enough to notice that anybody else existed outside of his mind. I'm glad it was you, John."

And what do you say to that? John is utterly disarmed by Violet's words. He can see so much of Sherlock in his mother's practical but kindly manner. She doesn’t suffer fools, Mrs Holmes, but she knows when something is good.

"I'm glad too. He's the best thing that ever happened to me. I am honoured that he asked."

She kisses his cheek once and slips away to greet more of her guests.

John is only alone for a moment before Molly spots him and comes over.

"Hello!" she smiles. "I thought you might be here too."

"I wouldn't miss it," John smiles, still scanning the garden for Sherlock as politely as he can. Molly is a good friend and John somehow feels that he has a lot of making up to do for how Sherlock used to spurn her advances - he clearly had no interest in her in that respect, but he had been so blunt about his lack of interest.When it became common knowledge that he and Sherlock were together he had half expected Molly to cool towards him, but she hadn’t and John is grateful for that.

"So do you know anyone else here?" she asks, turning toward the party.

"I know Sherlock's parents,and Greg and Mrs H and Mycroft of course, but other than that they are all strangers to me. I think there are some cousins, and lots of their line dancing friends. I saw you chatting to someone earlier," John says teasingly but Molly just rolls her eyes and giggles a little.

"Charles - he's one of the cousins. He's a musician. He's nice." Molly will never make a good criminal; her cheeks burn at the slightest hint of a lie, even one of omission like this.

"And?"

"And nothing! What?" she squeaks at John's sceptical expression.

"And?"

"I said! He's nice! He lives in London and he suggested we meet up for coffee one day."

"Ahhh, coffee is it?" John nudges Molly and she shoves him back harder.

"Shut up! He's nice! That's all."

John laughs and relents. "Sorry, Molly. Good for you."

John catches a glimpse of tall and slim, and turns to excuse himself from Molly who is fanning herself with a paper napkin but when he looks again, there is no trace of Sherlock.

And so it goes for most of the afternoon - it's almost as if the man is avoiding him. John is sure he makes eye contact with his fiancé at one point but one of the catering staff crosses between them and when they pass, there's no Sherlock once again. John would quite like to hear about some of the guests here and there's no better storyteller than Sherlock. Not only does he know the history of many of these people as they are related, but he can supplement that with his deductive processes and his wicked sense of humour that often has John fighting to control himself in public when Sherlock has said something so sharp or outrageous that John cannot help but find it hilarious.

John manages to keep him in sight for the sweet, funny speech that Hugh gives to thank everyone for coming and to honour his wife and their happy marriage because both Mycroft and Sherlock are standing with their parents at the time, but with nothing but a wink as the applause starts, he is sucked back into the crowd and away from John immediately afterwards.

The sun is beginning to set, arcing down behind the trees when people start saying their goodbyes. John has chatted with Molly some more, met Charles Holmes - Molly's right, he is nice and he has a few tales to tell about Sherlock growing up that John can't wait to verify with the man himself. He and Greg spent a good hour talking shop and seeing if they could spot the relatives among the diverse crowd. Mycroft came and joined them and much to John's surprise, turned out to be rather good company when he wasn't being the British Government or a big brother in both senses of the phrase.

By around half past eight, most of the guests are gone or going, and Greg, Molly and Mrs Hudson are all wondering where their promised lift back to London with Mycroft has disappeared to. Indeed, neither of the Holmes brothers are to be found, even with all of them looking for them.

John finally asks Violet who is sitting with her feet up in her husband's lap, watching as the last of the catering staff pack up the plates and glasses, leaving the garden quiet and filled with the scent of crushed grass along with the honeysuckle that covers the west-facing wall of the cottage.

"I think they were down in the copse," Violet says, wriggling her toes for Hugh's consideration as he massages her feet.

"Yes, down the far end, by the birch trees," Hugh agrees. "It always was Sherlock's favourite part of the garden, and his favourite place to hide."

John sets off in the direction of Hugh’s vague gesture, noting that garden torches have been lit. It's still light enough to see the way, but it won't be for long. The closer he gets to the white trunks of the silver birches, the more torches there are, and John wonders what he's missed. Was there a whole other party going on down here so far away from the house?

As he walks beneath the first of the trees, he can see two figures, standing together, both tall and upright, one dark haired and one auburn, and both of them are looking at him.

"Dr Watson, would join us?" Mycroft asks formally.

There is a circle of torches casting a gold glow on the silver bark of the trees and the wind is so still that there is almost no noise as it moves through the leaves. Behind him, John can hear the others following, Molly's little gasp and Mrs Hudson's, "Oh!"

Sherlock, who is smiling at him with a combination of smugness and sheepishness, walks to meet him, takes his hand and leads him back to stand before Mycroft. John's heart could not be more full. He thinks of the beautiful jacket that he left up in their room and the sleeves that he has rolled up in the heat of the afternoon sun. Sherlock too is in shirtsleeves and his hair has escaped whatever alchemy he uses to tame the mad curls into neat waves.

Their friends and family stop a pace or two behind them in a loose semi-circle and Sherlock doesn’t relinquish John's hand, but holds it tighter in his own and turns to face his brother who looks from one to the other.

"If you'd be so kind, Mycroft," Sherlock says quietly. John has never heard him speak so civilly to his brother and can't drag his eyes away from him to look at their apparent celebrant.

Mycroft, who has also taken off his jacket and stands in his waistcoat and shirt, breathes deeply once and smiles.

"The only requirement of my office tonight is to hear you both declare that you are free to marry and that you wish to contract a marriage between you. These are the only legal obligations, so…”

Sherlock speaks then, certain and clear. “I declare that I know of no legal reason why I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes may not be joined in marriage to John Hamish Watson.”

John’s voice is rough as he repeats the corresponding declaration. He has no concept of whether he has said the right words or not, his mind scattered and intensely focussed at the same time, but no one questions him.

Mycroft nods. “I have no other role in this than to gain your signatures on the certificate. However, if I may, I would like to add that no one could have doubted that your commitment to each other was anything other than unbreakable. Anyone who met you and saw the quiet joy you share in each other's presence would perceive that such an understanding as yours was both special and rare. They would be correct in doing so. That you have chosen to express your commitment here, in this way is a formality only, and one that I am humbled to be a part of. Furthermore it is one that makes me deeply, deeply happy."

John's ability to swallow is stolen by Mycroft's words. He has rarely heard sincerity from the older Holmes - disdain, impatience and condescension all seem to come easily to both brothers but to see Mycroft and hear the depth of feeling in his choice of words brings home to John the magnitude of what they are doing.

When John has schooled himself sufficiently to look back to his fiance, Sherlock has turned toward him. 

"John, I hope you know that I never considered myself as someone who might marry. For numerous reasons I thought this would be something that I would never experience and I felt no remorse for that. And then I met you and - well - a lot of things I'd thought outside the realms of possibility, suddenly changed. In you I found that rarest of gifts; a true friend. So you will forgive me if I was slower on the uptake than I should have been because my expectations were already exceeded by quite some magnitude in that friendship. The possibility that your regard might stretch to affection or love seemed so far beyond the realms of probability that I had to consider the possibility that you were delusional when first you made it clear that you found me worthy of your love. It took me some time to understand the extent of my good fortune and no time at all to return the sentiment, once I had understood. You have made me a better person and I will strive every day to be worthy of your love.

I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take you, John Hamish Watson, to be my wedded husband.”

John can hear Mrs Hudson sniffing and coo-ing from behind them, but he has no time to think further on it than that. Sherlock's words have taken him completely unawares. Of course he should have thought about what to say to his new husband, but in the excitement of the proposal and the (very) short period the man was his fiancé, John has forgotten that it is customary to exchange vows. The thought should be terrifying, standing in front of some of his favourite people (and Mycroft) without a single thing prepared, but he is relieved to find that it doesn't really matter. He just needs to tell the truth. 

"Sherlock," he begins and has to stop to clear his throat. "Sherlock, you only asked me to marry you five hours ago and even that felt like too long to wait. And now we have the rest of our lives to look forward to, our first kiss as married men, our first breakfast as husbands, our first Christmas, our first anniversary, our first argument, our first compromise, I’m eager to begin. As your friend, your assistant, your partner and now as your husband, I am grateful every day for what we have. I love you - I always have and I always will.

I, John Hamish Watson, take you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to be my wedded husband.”

There is some suspicious throat clearing and shuffling of feet as a collective, silent sigh goes through the group. The flames from the torches flicker in the imperceptible breeze and John is caught in Sherlock's eyes, neither of them wanting to be the first to break this moment. A smile plays around Sherlock's mouth - soft and natural. John's gaze falls to Sherlock's lips and as if compelled to do so, he leans in slightly. Sherlock bends towards him too but pauses to cast a quick glance at his brother.

"Done?" he asks.

"Done," Mycroft nods, and Sherlock leans in all the way and kisses John, right there, in front of everyone.

A ripple of enthusiastic applause goes through the group who break into excited chattering. There's a pop of champagne corks being launched into the trees and still Sherlock is kissing him. It's gentle, no more than a soft pressure as they breathe together and then their friends are surrounding them, shaking their hands and pressing flutes of cold, sparkling wine on them. The first stars are brightening above them, only just visible over the golden light of the flares. It's such a simple setting, but utterly perfect and completely magical. John can't believe that the romantic in his husband has come to the fore to create this for them. 

A circle of wicker chairs has been set up and everyone takes a seat, talking amongst themselves. There's no need for speeches or cakes and even the flowers are in another part of the garden. Their suits are in their bedroom, still in the shrink-wrapping, and yet John cannot imagine a more perfect wedding ceremony - it's so very them. Greg and Mycroft are deep in conversation, Mycroft barely recognisable as he smiles and leans back in his seat. Mrs Hudson and Violet are trading stories about Sherlock and Mycroft, and Molly is listening to Hugh, nodding and smiling at his words. In the midst of all of this, John steals a second to squeeze his husband's hand. 

"It was perfect, love. Thank you."

"Well, we needed an officiant and Mycroft is the most officious person I know,” Sherlock confides with a quick grin.

"I heard that." Mycroft calls, but doesn't turn away from his conversation.

Years from now, when they are both older than Sherlock's parents are today, it won't be the clothes or the lack of music or rings that they recall about tonight.

For John it will be the way Sherlock took his hand and led him into the circle of torches.

For Sherlock it will be the way John's eyes shone the first time he called him _husband_.

Fin


End file.
